


whatever it is, jefferson started it

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: like you need it to survive [2]
Category: Designated Survivor (TV), Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Looking Fabulous While Doing So, Angst, Banter, Designated Survivor AU, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I need this in my life like I've never needed anything before, I will create the entire tag if that's what it takes, Jefferson&Hamilton 2k16, Lafayette being the best, M/M, Peggy's there for like five seconds, Politics, President Hamilton, Putting The Government Back Together, Social Anxiety, alexander hamilton: human disaster, because designated survivor kind of operates on the basis of them being dead, because that needs to become a proper tag, or so help me god, the major death warning is for gwash & co, the occasional (mis)use of French
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 01:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8309056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: prompt: "Designated Survivor AU with Jefferson as the designated survivor, and Hamilton as the guy who just happened to make out on the lawn instead listening to President Washington's speech. Jefferson becomes president and Hamilton is his vice, and they hate each other but also have to work together and compromise in order to to put the government back together, and maybe they fall in love, maybe it ends in friendship, but I want a happy ending damnit. Also, lots of angst because Hamilton & Washington."Aka, the Designated Survivor AU someone actually did ask for.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This prompt has been eating at me, so I decided to write it. It was initially meant to be more angsty, but then Jamilton happened. I had no control over this. I feel like 90% of this is crack turned serious.
> 
> Hover over the French expressions for English translations.

 “Of all the people that could have been the designated survivor, it just had to have been you,” Hamilton hissed, pacing around the Oval Office.

Jefferson scowled, watching Hamilton from behind the presidential desk—from behind _his_ desk now, he supposed, although he didn't focus on the implications of that. It wouldn't do to break down in front of Hamilton again. Once was bad enough. “I could say the same thing about you. Why did you even survive?” he couldn't keep the incredulity from his voice.

Hamilton came to a full stop and faced Jefferson. “I've already told you,” he began, “I was—“

“—out on the lawn, making out with some reporter, instead of listening to the president's speech,” Jefferson cut him off. “Yes, you have reiterated that story at least three times now, Secretary, but we both know that you all but worshipped Washington and the ground he walked on. You wrote that speech. I want to know why you weren't there to hear him say it.”

Hamilton turned away, but Jefferson noted that his cheeks reddened. It was cute, Jefferson supposed. It was also one of Hamilton's very few redeeming characteristics, the other being that Hamilton was a good eight inches shorter than him, which Jefferson could lord over him.

“It's personal, Jefferson,” Hamilton retorted, still turned towards the sofa. “It didn't have anything to do with the attack. It doesn't matter.”

“Are you out of your goddamn mind, Hamilton?!” Jefferson shouted. “The president died! Our entire cabinet is gone! All of them, every since one of the people there, died! Of fucking course it matters!”

Hamilton finally looked back at Jefferson. His eyes were ablaze with an emotion Jefferson struggled to identify. “If you're accusing me of treason, please do me the courtesy of saying it outright.”

Jefferson resisted the urge to throw up his hands in the air—or, better yet, punch Hamilton. It would serve no purpose but to aggravate the man, but it would be so immensely satisfying. “No, I'm not accusing you of treason, you harebrained moron. If it were anyone else, then yes, I would at least consider the possibility. But you are _you_ , Hamilton,” he made a vague gesture in Hamilton's direction, “and we all know that you had a personal bond with the president. You were his favourite. He treated you like a son.“

Hamilton scoffed. “Oh, don't tell me you put any stock in those ridiculous rumours. They have no basis in facts, and only serve to invalidate my numerous achievements.”

Jefferson ignored him and barged on. ”I don't think you had anything to to do with his death. But you may have seen something suspicious, and we need you to tell us because, and your brain may not have understood this, so let me repeat: _you were the only survivor among a thousand dead_. I need to know what you were doing with that reporter,” he finished impatiently.

“He asked me out on a date, okay?!” Hamilton responded in kind. “We've been fucking for a few weeks, and he finally asked me out on a date! Is this what you wanted to hear, Jefferson? _Putain, est-ce que tu est satisfait?_ ” he snarled.

Jefferson rolled his eyes. “I couldn't care less about your conquests, Hamilton. I want to know if you saw something suspicious,” he made an effort to put as much condescension into his voice as possible.

“And I've already told you that I saw nothing out of the ordinary.”

Jefferson closed his eyes, suddenly tired. “Hamilton, look, we are dealing with the worst terrorist attack since 9/11. Over a thousand people are dead, including the president—“

“ _Je sais qui est mort, Jefferson. Je n'y a pas besoin d'un rappel_ ,” Hamilton cut him off angrily, approaching the desk in quick strides. There was grief in his eyes, most likely caused by the loss of Washington, which Jefferson knew was mirrored in his eyes every time he let himself think about James and the moments they would never have again.

Jefferson forced himself to think about anything but the tragedy. Hamilton. Hamilton's good because Hamilton is infuriating and problematic and almost helpful and adorable and maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

He stared into Hamilton's eyes. “Then I trust that I don't need to remind you what's at stake,” the tension in the room rose noticeably. “In case you haven't noticed, everyone we knew is dead. I had to take the Oath of Office barely more than four hours ago. For God's sake, I'm stuck with _you_ as my vice president. I'm about as happy with this arrangement as you are, but let's face it, there is literally no one else for this job. Washington's cabinet is gone, as are the Congress and the Senate. The government as we know it is in ruins, Hamilton. Right now, we are all that's standing between this country and total chaos, so I need to know,” Jefferson jabbed his index finger at the desk with every word he spoke, “ _can I trust you?_ ”

Hamilton held Jefferson's gaze for a short moment, then looked away, settling his eyes on the desk. He ran a finger across the desk, seemingly unconsciously. “Of course you can trust me. Someone needs to make sure you don't blow up this country any more than you already have,” he teased.

The tension dissipated as quickly as it had arrived. Jefferson rolled his eyes at Hamilton's antics. “I believe it's the other way around, what with your financial plan and all the idiotic schemes you keep inventing.”

“You know as well as I that my financial plan is exactly what this country needs to avoid complete bankruptcy,” Hamilton objected.

“It's more likely to blow up in our faces,” Jefferson retorted, falling back on old habits.

* * *

It started like this:

“Sir, with all due respect, I should be there during your speech,” Jefferson stood in front of Washington's desk, his hands clasped behind his back. “A major part of the speech is about our foreign affairs with France and England, and I believe I should be present for the announcement. Besides, would it not be odd for the Secretary of State to be absent at the State of the Union?”

Washington leaned back into his chair. “Secretary Jefferson, while I do see your point, I should tell you that the State of the Union is in no way connected to the State Department. Furthermore, I should be able to perform my speech without you there to hold my hand,” he raised an eyebrow in rebuke. “I do not think you fully understand what an honour it is to be the designated survivor. This is my way of telling you that I trust you to run my country should anything happen to me.”

“Nothing has ever happened during the State of the Union, and nothing will happen now,” Jefferson responded. “I think you should let Hamilton sit this one out. He already knows your speech—he wrote it, after all,” he continued, and if there was a trace of bitterness in his voice, well.

“Disregarding that incredibly rude comment towards Secretary Hamilton,” Washington scowled, “I need him there, as he will be introducing part of our plan for the next year.”

“Do you plan to stay there overnight, sir?” Jefferson smirked.

Washington opened his mouth, probably to admonish Jefferson, but was interrupted by a knock. “Come in,” he said loudly.

Alexander Hamilton barged into the room, barely sparing Jefferson a passing glance as he approached Washington, his mouth already spouting off a thousand words a minute. “Your Excellency, we need to go over your last-minute preparation plans. I have made minuscule changes to the speech, to highlight the positive aspects of the changes we will focus on during this coming year, and to clear up any misunderstandings in one of the vaguer statements in the second part of your speech tonight. You also need to approve of the change of address—“

“Hamilton, calm down,” Washington said, his eyes twinkling in amusement, which seemed to have some sort of effect, as Hamilton stopped talking gibberish—though how long the silence would last, Jefferson wasn't sure. Washington then looked Jefferson in the eye. “Secretary Jefferson, this conversation is over,” his voice brooked no argument. It was the voice Washington used when he was tired of Jefferson and Hamilton going at each other's throats in cabinet meetings and declared them both children—something which occurred more often than Jefferson would like to admit.

Jefferson huffed but, seeing as how Hamilton had already resumed his babbling and Washington seemed to focus his attention solely on the Treasury Secretary, he took it as the dismissal it was, and saw himself out of the Oval Office.

“We considered mentioning the mine workers, but Eliza claims that it would be too ostentatious, so we had to change it to—“

Hamilton's voice faded out as Jefferson closed the door. Goddamn it, he hated that guy, and it was made even more frustrating by the fact that he had Washington wrapped around his little finger. Sometimes Jefferson wondered who was really the president. Now, if Jefferson got to decide, Hamilton wouldn't be doing anything with more responsibility than cleaning the floors around here, and maybe not even that.

Maybe one day, Jefferson would be president and things would change. Until then, he had to at least tolerate Hamilton. It was only too bad that Hamilton didn't seem to want to make the same effort.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon on the first day after the explosion, when Hamilton and Jefferson were in the middle of another argument about the cabinet replacements, that the door to the Oval Office was unceremoniously opened and Lafayette barged in, heedless of the security guard stationed outside the door. "I'm sorry, sir, I tried to stop him," the guard managed to stutter out an excuse, then closed the door at Jefferson's dismissal.

Lafayette ignored the man and went straight to Hamilton and Jefferson. "I came as soon as I heard. You have my deepest condolences.” Without hesitation, Lafayette embraced Hamilton in a tight hug. Hamilton tucked his face in Lafayette's shoulder.

They stood there for a moment, not saying anything, until Jefferson cleared his throat. They parted but shared one last meaningful glance, the kind that could easily replace entire conversations, before both turning towards Jefferson. "Not that I'm not grateful for your presence, but how are you alive, Ambassador?" Jefferson inquired politely. He and Lafayette were close friends, and Lafayette understood him like few people did — as evidenced by the fact that he didn't offer Jefferson a hug — but there were situations in which protocol had to be adhered, even if Hamilton showed no desire to do the same.

Lafayette winced. "I was scheduled to attend the Union, yes, but an emergency, how you say, cropped up in Paris, and I was called away at a moment's notice," Lafayette shifted a little, shot a quick glance at Hamilton, then continued. "I was apologetic that I had missed the President's speech, but, at the risk of offending you, I now thank God that I was not present."

" _Merde_ , how could you think we'd take offense?" Hamilton oozed indignation.

Jefferson glared at Hamilton for once again disregarding protocol, or, indeed, good manners. "Right now, I am simply thanking the stars that we still have our staunchest ally," Jefferson then cut himself off. It was presumptive of him to assume that the French would still help them, seeing as the president that France had made their alliance with was now dead.

Perhaps knowing what was going on in Jefferson's mind, Lafayette made as if to grip Jefferson's shoulder in reassurance, then halted the action and let his hand fall down. "You do not need to doubt our allegiance. France will honour our treaty. Your people will be avenged."

"You have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that," Jefferson admitted. It was not the most diplomatic thing to say — one was supposed to assure one's allies that one had never doubted their allegiance for one second — but Lafayette knew him well enough to tell if he was lying, and Lafayette deserved better than some dumbass falsehood.

Damn. Hamilton must be rubbing off on him.

* * *

Jefferson had been taken to an apartment in the north-east end of town. He brought his laptop, intending to get some overdue paperwork done. If he was effective, he would also have time to read through Hamilton's most recent essay defending his financial reform. Jefferson's opinions regarding that particular plan were well-known, and his arguments with Hamilton were probably giving Washington nightmares by now. Nonetheless, Jefferson would not budge, especially not when he knew that he was right. Hamilton's plan was doomed to fail, and Jefferson would rather resign from his post than be complicit in letting their farmers suffer Hamilton's idiocy.

Jefferson had to hand it to Hamilton though—his arguments were very well-written and would convince the average citizen. Luckily, Jefferson considered himself quite a bit above average, not that he would admit it out loud. Hamilton bragged enough for the both of them.

He was soon left with only the bare minimum of his Secret Service protection. He turned on the TV to listen to Washington's speech—although it might as well be Hamilton's, considering how much focus there was on Treasury this year—and got started on his paperwork. He finished it in record time and began skimming through that thrice-damned financial plan. He scoffed several times when he felt that Hamilton was being extra dramatic, then summed up the document with a simple, “Pray we never see Hamilton's candidacy. I shudder to even think of the prospect,” under his breath.

He was just about to start on his scathing response when the news feed cut out. His head snapped up, but the only thing on television was a black-and-white fizzling screen. He cursed under his breath and grabbed the remote to check other channels as both Secret Service men spoke indistinctly into their communicators. All other channels were functioning, but when Jefferson switched back to C-SPAN, he was once again met with static. One of the Secret Service rushed to him and grabbed him, all but dragging him towards the door that the other one was holding open.

It was all a blur afterwards. They got into the car, and Jefferson had tried to find out what was going on, but nobody would give him a straight answer, talking in code. Finally, Jefferson could no longer stand the uncertainty and burst out: “Can someone please tell me what's happened?!”

The two Secret Service in the front exchanged glances, then the one in the passenger seat turned around to look Jefferson in the eye and brought Jefferson's world crashing down with two short sentences. “There's been an explosion, sir. The president is dead.”

* * *

Jefferson hated to admit it, but Hamilton was probably the only thing holding his world together these first few hours. He got through the Oath of Office on automatic, moving as if through a haze

 

_I, Thomas Jefferson, do solemnly swear_

 

and though he remembered the information that he's been told by Major Cameron, the FBI Deputy Director Olsen, General Leehaw, and everybody else, he couldn't have repeated what exactly had been said to him if his life had depended on it.

 

_that I will faithfully execute_

 

In fact, the first clear moment since he saw his TV fizzle out was Hamilton's shouts as he was brought into the White House and quickly promoted from Treasury Secretary to Vice President

 

_the Office of President of the United States_

 

which was mostly so that he could represent the Senate. The shorter man's voice was could be heard through the entire White House, and, though Jefferson would never admit it out loud, he was thankful for the distraction.

 

_and will to the best of my ability_

 

He couldn't process what had happened yet—could not allow himself to process—because he needed to be at his best right now, and concentrating on the events would paralyze him. If he allowed himself to think about Madison—

No no _no NO_. Stop. _Un, deux, trois._ Breathe in, breathe out. Focus on Hamilton. There would be time to grieve later.

 

_preserve, protect and defend_

 

Hamilton. Hamilton was his anchor right now, because, annoying though he is, he is a familiar element, and Jefferson was in desperate need of those.

 

_the Constitution of the United States._

* * *

If Hamilton was his anchor, then Jefferson would like to request a ship transfer, please. Preferably before he commits murder.

“We can't focus on the economy now, Hamilton,” Jefferson pinched his eyes, trying to wipe the tiredness out of them. God, he never realized how much work the presidency entailed. The social events alone were enough to exhaust anyone. Add to that his social anxiety and… well, let's just say that Jefferson wasn't feeling over the top, and leave it at that. And now Hamilton was here, prattling on about his goddamned financial plan, just as Jefferson had decided to turn in for the day.

Hamilton scowled. “ _Va te faire foutre_. We had a financial problem before, but the attack only worsened it. We are literally on the brink of economic collapse. If we don't do something now, these decisions you've been making won't matter because we _won't have_ a nation to govern. How do you not get it? What we need right now is a financial boost, and you'd rather give our failing nation a sedative? I knew you were a hypocrite, but I didn't take you for a fool. Mr President,” he added in a rebellious voice, somehow managing to make the title into an insult.

“It's not as bad as you are making it seem,” Jefferson dismissed his monologue. “How do you even keep track of this?”

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. “I'm not doing my job if I don't know our financial situation,” he took a seat on one of the couches.

Jefferson threw himself onto the other sofa dramatically. “Hamilton, your job is to be my vice president,” he reminded the shorter man.

“And as your vice president, it is my duty to watch our nation for any signs of trouble and advice you on how to solve these when they inevitably crop up,” Hamilton retorted. “Jefferson, this isn't a sign of trouble. It's a fucking billboard in the middle of the highway, impossible to miss but hard to change. And, as we still don't have a Treasury Secretary—“

“Remind me again, why is that?” Jefferson rolled his eyes. “Oh, right, because you reject every single replacement suggestion.”

“They were all subpar,” Hamilton gritted his teeth. “I will not have an idiot running the Treasury Department. Or have you found a Secretary of State yet?” he hit the ball back to Jefferson.

Jefferson didn't reply, which Hamilton counted as a victory. The room was quiet for a moment, and, just as the silence was becoming stifling, Jefferson sat up on the couch. “Fine. You try to get that reform through, but remember—it's still the same reform as before. You don't get free reigns to do whatever the hell you want.”

For the first time in however many days it has been since the attack (and wasn't it the sad truth that it had gotten to the point where Jefferson didn't even know which day it was), Hamilton smiled. Jefferson found that he quite liked it, though he would rather endorse Hamilton's presidency than admit it.

* * *

Jefferson didn't know why he thought this was a good idea. Sure, charity functions always sounded good, but he knew that his social anxiety usually put a stopper to being in any crowded room.

Granted, this function was much smaller than presidential functions usually were, since they were attended primarily by politicians, and the politician population in the country had dwindled down to ambassadors, governors, minor state officials, and Hamilton and himself. There was also Congressman Samuel Seabury, a Republican, who only survived the explosion because he was too sick to attend, but Jefferson didn't count him, seeing as his political career had been all but over even before the explosion, since the people of Iowa were demanding a decent representative. Personally, Jefferson wouldn't want to be represented by Hanover either, so he couldn't blame them.

Jefferson was aware that presidents were expected to socialize, to always smile and weave between virtual strangers as though they were old friends. They weren’t supposed to stutter before audiences, weren’t supposed to speak so quietly as to be practically unheard by anyone. What a sorry excuse for a president he was.

The room he was in started to spin and warp, the voices coming as if from a distance, muted and indistinct. He swayed on his feet, but caught his footing. He had to fight to keep his breathing even. He looked around the room for any kind of escape, and saw the doors leading to the bathrooms only a few meters from him. Perfect. He made his excuses as he all but rushed to the bathroom. He was vaguely aware that his breathing had now become erratic, too quick and too shallow. Great.

He has always had a problem with being in an unfamiliar crowd. He also despised tight spaces, but not nearly as much as being surrounded by strangers. Yet another way in which he was unsuited for the presidency. How did ever Washington survive this?

Jefferson quickly found the male washroom and barged in. He thanked his lucky stars that it was empty, because he really wasn’t in the right state of mind to explain to any witnesses why the President of the United States was quietly hyperventilating in a public bathroom. He opened a sink and let the sound of the water wash over his thoughts. When that didn’t calm down his racing thoughts, he splashed a handful of water into his face and took several deep breaths.

Breathe in, _un, deux, trois._ Breathe out, _un, deux, trois._

Jefferson didn’t know how long he was in there. He knew that his eyes were puffed up red from crying. He heard the door open and close, and a familiar voice say, “Jefferson, I was just wondering where you'd ran off to, but you seem to have built a nest here.”

Hamilton. Just splendid. Because his luck wasn't rotten enough, the universe had brought him his nemesis to laugh at him in the middle of a nervous breakdown.

He prayed that Hamilton wouldn’t notice his tear-streaked face—but of course notice he did. ”Have you been—” Hamilton cut off. ”Shit, Jefferson, are you alright?”

”I’m just dandy, Hamilton, piss off,” Jefferson bit back, using his arms to lean against the sink in the bathroom. He hated that he was reduced to this whimpering, crying mess merely by having to socialize. He hated that Hamilton was seeing him like this. He hated that he had to do it. Damnit, he hated the presidency. He hated that circumstances had forced him into this situation.

He took a deep breath and tried to calm his nerves. Breathe in, breathe out. _Un, deux, trois._ In and out. _Un, deux, trois._

It usually helped, but this time, it did not. It was just Jefferson’s luck.

”What’s wrong?” Hamilton positioned himself at his side and turned so that he could look Jefferson in the face.

”There was… a lot of people in there,” Jefferson admitted, his Southern drawl stronger than usual. He didn’t want Hamilton to see him like this, but what choice did he have? He could hardly run back to the event looking like this.

Still, the infuriating man would not go away. Hamilton's deft fingers tilted Jefferson’s head so that their eyes met. ”Focus on me, Thomas,” he instructed. ”Focus on my voice. Breathe in. _Un, deux, trois._ Breathe out. _Quatre, cinq, six._ Just like that. Good.

”Can you tell me who you are?”

Jefferson took a deep breath. ”Thomas Jefferson.”

”Can you see what’s in front of you?”

”Yeah. I-it’s a sink.”

”Good. Now, can you tell me where you are?” Hamilton’s voice was relentless, not giving him a break.

”In the Jackson building,” Jefferson breathed out. His thoughts were finally starting to clear, and the haze from before was dispersing. He didn’t like the fact that he had Hamilton, of all people, to thank for that.

”What are you doing right now?”

”Talking to my sorry excuse for a vice president,” Jefferson muttered under his breath, which got a laugh out of Hamilton. The other man finally took a step back, and Jefferson met Hamilton's gaze. ”Thank you.”

Hamilton searched his eyes for something, though Jefferson couldn't begin to guess what. ”I didn’t know you that have social anxiety.”

Jefferson did not hold back a bitter snort. ”Well, that’s not the kind of thing you tell people if you want to make a career in politics.”

Hamilton sighed. ”True,” he conceded.

”I’m fine one-on-one,” Jefferson found that he needed to defend his oratorical skills, or the lack thereof.

Hamilton inclined his head. ”I’ve argued with you enough times to notice that,” he agreed.

After what he deemed was a long enough moment of silence, Jefferson asked the question that has been on his mind since Hamilton approached him. ”How did you know how to talk me down?”

Hamilton shifted. ”It’s a grounding technique, to help people who have panic attacks regain their bearing,” he said as he absently began to draw circles on Jefferson's palm.

”That didn’t answer my question.”

Hamilton turned to look at the mirror—or, really, anywhere but at Jefferson, whose inquisitive eyes felt like the Spanish Inquisition at the moment. “It's not exactly public knowledge, but I'm afraid of storms. Thunder, lightning, the whole package. Washington had to calm me down a few times while I stayed with him.”

Jefferson blinked bemusedly. “Why were you staying with him?” he frowned.

Hamilton's fingers stilled for the fraction of a second before resuming tracing invisible patterns in Jefferson's hands. “John broke up with me. Since I was living in his apartment, I had to find someplace to live while I was looking for something more permanent The Washingtons offered me a temporary bedroom. Washington used this method on me. I didn’t ask how he knew it,” his voice implied that the conversation was over.

Jefferson took another minute to get his bearings back together, then looked at the door resignedly. He supposed that there was no delaying the inevitable.

When they went back to the charity, Jefferson stopped at the door and paled. Although he knew that the crowd would still be there when he came back, it was one thing to know it in theory, and another to actually process it.

”Hey,” Hamilton said, grabbing his hand, ”it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

”Thank you,” Jefferson murmured.

Later, Jefferson will probably hate to have had to thank Alexander Hamilton for anything, but right now, he was just grateful that the other man was there with him, to ground him. He would deal with the repercussions for the president holding his vice president’s hand during a formal event at some later date.

* * *

“You lied, “ Jefferson's voice startled Hamilton as he entered his office in the morning—well, dawn, if one cares about the details. The magenta-clad man was lounging in Hamilton's swivel chair, fingers causally weaved together. His voice was deceptively light, but it instantly put Hamilton on the edge.

“What are you talking about?” Hamilton stifled a jawn as he threw his satchel onto the desk in the hopes that it would prompt Jefferson to vacate his chair. Alas, no such luck.

“That reporter you were with during the explosion,” Jefferson clarified, and Hamilton felt a sense of dread wash over him. “What was his name? You never said.”

Hamilton felt his face heat up. “With all due respect,” Jefferson snorted at that, “this isn't any of your business. I thought we had already had this discussion.”

Jefferson leaned forward and fixed his eyes on Hamilton. “See, I think that it wasn't a reporter at all. I think it was Lafayette,” Jefferson's voice took on an accusatory tone.

Hamilton narrowed his eyes. “However did you arrive at that idea?”

Jefferson suddenly slammed his hands against Hamilton's desk. Hamilton winced on behalf of the desk. “I found out from an over-zealous reporter. From a goddamn _reporter_ , Hamilton! I thought I could trust you.”

“You can,” Hamilton insisted, even as he was under the strange impression that he was digging his own grave.

“Apparently not,” Jefferson hissed. “If you had trusted me, you would have confided in me.”

“Why does it even matter with whom I was?”

“'Why does it matter'?” Jefferson parroted incredulously. He laughed hollowly. “Because it could potentially result in a _war_ with France if this got out. Did that occur to you at all? Or were you only thinking with your dick?” he taunted.

Hamilton's eyes widened as something occurred to him. “Does the public know?” he asked, dreading the answer but needing to hear it nonetheless.

Jefferson shook his head. “Thankfully not. I managed to talk the reporter down and bribe her with a juicy story about Burr and Madison. But that's not the point, Hamilton! The point is that this whole affair could have been averted completely, had you told me the truth to begin with. We could have drafted a statement to the public instead of facing a proverbial guillotine. How do I know that you're not hiding other things as well?”

Hamilton rolled his eyes and settled in the chair in front of his desk. “Then I can put your apprehensions to rest, Jefferson—there's plenty of other things about my life that I'm not telling you about, and, believe it or not, none of it endangers national security or is likely to spark off an international crisis.”

Jefferson huffed. “For some reason, I don't trust you to be the judge of what will cause a crisis. You need to tell me those things.”

Hamilton was never one to pass up an opportunity to flirt. “Why, if you wanted a date, all you had to do was ask, Mr President.”

Jefferson sputtered as Hamilton grinned. “Why—you—“ he took a moment to collect his thoughts. “You truly cannot take anything seriously, can you, Hamilton?” Jefferson shook his head. “It's astonishing, really, how the Treasury Department didn't collapse under your leadership,” he said scathingly

“I'm more amazed at the fact that you haven't caused any wars as Secretary of State,” Hamilton shot back. “It's unheard of for you to stomach not being at the center of a conversation at all times.”

“How very witty of you, Alexander. Are you sure you aren't confusing me with yourself?”

Alexander blinked. “Since when are we on a first-name basis?"

Jefferson let out a breath. “Since we are responsible for single-handedly putting an entire country back together. I think that merits the right to use each other's first names.”

Other significant moments that had bound them together went unspoken but acknowledged by both men.

“In that case, dear Thomas,” Alexander quipped, “we'd better get right down to it, wouldn't you agree?”

And for the first time in his life, Thomas did.

* * *

After Lafayette's visit that first day, Jefferson has neither seen nor heard from the Frenchman in over two months. He has been busy running the country and making sure that it wouldn't fall apart. In addition, Hamilton was constantly writing new plans, claiming that they would improve their government. Most of them were an idealistic fool's hope which would never have a chance of passing had there been an actual Congress, but Hamilton, turning the loss of Congress into an advantage, saw an opportunity to shape the government however he wanted (a chance that hasn't occurred since the Revolution). Some of Hamilton's ideas were unacceptable, but Jefferson agreed that one or two merited further consideration.

They had compiled what evidence there was left from the explosion, and so far it pointed towards Al-Sakar, but Thomas didn't want to denounce them as the perpetrator quite yet, lest they pursue the wrong group. Alexander was all for condemning Al-Sakar anyway, but Thomas steadfastly shot down the incessant arguments.

Lafayette stopped by the White House two months into Thomas' presidency. “Is this a bad time?” Lafayette said after knocking on the door to Alexander's office. “I stopped by the Oval Office but was told that I would find you here.” Lafayette surveyed the two men, who were arguing even while eating Chinese take-outs—which, at this point, was the only thing they ever had time to eat.

Thomas raised an eyebrow and swallowed some noodles before speaking. “You learned to knock. Colour me impressed.”

Lafayette grinned. “Ah, but on my last visit, I was, how you say, beside myself with worry and such inconsequential details escaped me.”

“Stop saying that, _connard_ ,” Alexander groaned and pointed a fork in Lafayette's direction. “Your English is better than mine.”

Lafayette didn't deign Alexander's comment with a reply. Instead, he perched himself next to Alexander and stole a few spring rolls from his bag. Alexander swatted Lafayette's hand away, and Lafayette stuck out his tongue.

“Why are you eating this disgusting food?” he complained. “ _La cuisine française est beaucoup plus délicieuse._ ”

“Then don't steal my food, you French baguette,” Alexander retorted, making a point of enjoying his food.

Lafayette shrugged. “It's still free food.”

“Get your own,” Alexander grumbled. “I haven't eaten since yesterday,” he added carelessly before realizing what he had just revealed.

Lafayette frowned at Thomas. “He's not taking care of himself. Why aren't you taking care of him?” he accused the president.

Thomas rolled his eyes. “He's an adult, Marquis, he ought to be able to take care of himself.”

“He's _Alexander Hamilton_ ,” Lafayette objected, as if that explained everything. Thomas must have entered some kind of Twilight Zone, because what Lafayette said _did_ make a lot of sense.

There was another subject that he wanted to breach with Lafayette. “You lied to me when you said that you were called away to Paris,” he said with no small amount of bitterness in his voice. Thomas noticed that his hands were clenched into fists, and took a deep breath to forcibly relax himself.

As always, Alexander was more than ready to defend their friend. “He actually was called away to Paris, but the emergency was solved quicker than anticipated and he opted to visit me before resuming his duty. We've been, well, friends with benefits for a while, and he asked me to date him on the night of the attack,” he explained.

Lafayette tilted his head in confusion. “ _Je ne connaissais pas que tu as informé Thomas de notre relation_ ,” he said to Alexander.

Alexander grimaced. “I didn't,” he admitted.

“I found out from a reporter,” Thomas supplied.

“I'm sorry that I didn't tell you,” Lafayette addressed Thomas. “It must have slipped my mind."

Thomas rolled his eyes. “You're both going to be the death of me.”

He ignored the two sheepish smiles aimed at him. He could not, however, ignore the sudden weight beside him on the couch, or the arms that enveloped him. Lafayette smelled faintly of roses and vanilla and of something uniquely _Lafayette_. Thomas shifted uncomfortably in his seat as Lafayette mumbled a “sorry” into Thomas' hair. His breath became more erratic.

“Gilbert, you're suffocating me,” he said when he started to struggle to catch his breath.

“ _Sorry_ ,” Lafayette let go of his friend and scooted back across the table to the other couch, where he nuzzled against Alexander. Thomas felt annoyed for some reason at the sight, though he couldn't, for the life of him, understand why.

The rest of the evening was filled with catching up with Lafayette, which evolved into strategy talk, which then degenerated into squabbling with Alexander as Lafayette watched the two of them with amusement.

* * *

“You're awfully quiet today,” Thomas remarked, absently underlining a sentence and writing an enormous question mark after it. “I feel like celebrating.”

Alexander glared at Thomas, but, seeing as the president was facing away from him, the only thing he could glare at was Thomas' fluffy hair. “Just as I started to believe that you might be a decent human being, you go and prove that you are a _crétin_ ,” he said scathingly.

Thomas smirked and turned around to face Alexander. “I'm going to take that as a compliment,” he said. “Now, spill. Why should I celebrate?”

If anything, Alexander's glare intensified. “None of your business.”

“Ah,” Thomas made a sound of realization. “It's Lafayette, isn't it?"

Alexander blinked. “How—“

Thomas shrugged. “Every time you snap at me that it's none of my business, it somehow concerns Lafayette. What have you done this time? Am I going to have to talk the French embassy down from declaring a war on us?” he waited for Alexander's answer.

Alexander turned back to his paperwork, making an effort to look as though he was working and ignoring Thomas. Thomas waited patiently for all of two minutes, before Alexander spoke again—patience never having been his strength. “We broke up. I decided that I needed to focus on governing, and Lafayette didn't want to be a hindrance. Besides, we have been drifting apart ever since the Capitol,” he added.

Thomas frowned. “If you broke up with him, then why are you upset?” he couldn't believe that he was having this conversation with his vice president, Alexander Hamilton no less.

“I'm not!” Alexander objected more harshly than he had intended, then forcibly controlled his voice when he continued, “I'm just disappointed that he didn't put up much of a fight. He simply accepted my suggestion and went along with it."

“Well, if you have been drifting apart, that is not surprising,” Thomas deadpanned. “Seriously, are you really behaving like a sulking five-year-old kid because your boyfriend broke up with you?”

“I'm not _sulking_ ,” Alexander pouted.

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Go home, Hamilton, until you figure out your priorities.”

“You can't send me home!” Alexander protested indignantly.

Thomas narrowed his eyes. “I think you will find that I can.”

“This is how I deal with my issues—through work.”

“No, this is how you _delay_ dealing with your issues. I don't need you. Go home.”

Abruptly, Hamilton stood up and dropped the notebook he had been writing in onto the coffee table. A thud resounded in the otherwise quiet room. “Well, if you don't need me, Mr President, then you'll be able to put this country together by yourself,” he snarled furiously. “You will find my letter of resignation on your desk tomorrow morning. Have a good day,” he grabbed his coat and exited the room dramatically, Jefferson's shouts of “This isn't what I meant, Alexander! Come back!” following him from the room.

Let's see how well Jefferson handles being on his own, Hamilton thought vindictively.

* * *

In the end, Thomas lasted all of three days on his own before stopping by Alexander's place and requesting for him to come back. He would have been fine on his own, he defended, except for how the workload that has previously been divided between the two of them had now been thrust solely upon Thomas' shoulders. On top of that, there was Alexander's financial plan—which Thomas, if he was honest, has not read in its entirety yet (Thomas blamed the length of the document coupled with his lack of free time for that), and, consequently, understood maybe one fourth of. Thomas had also skipped a charity, citing food poisoning, since he knew that Alexander wouldn't be there to ground him or provide support, and he wasn't about to make a fool out of himself in front of every influential person in the country.

Thomas said outright that he did not accept Hamilton's letter of resignation and basically demanded that the shorter man come back to work. Alexander refused to do so until Thomas apologized, to which Thomas had rolled his eyes and said that he would try to avoid sticking his nose in Alexander's love life in the future. Alexander figured that it was as close to an apology as he was going to get from that infuriating man.

Hamilton, of course, did not offer Thomas an apology of his own, and wasn't that just typical?

* * *

Lafayette was attending the next gala, which was, in essence, nothing more than a glorified get-together for the rich and influential, giving them the chance to gossip, plan, and blackmail each other. Alexander, of course, was in his element, making his rounds with Thomas in tow. For his part, Thomas was more than content to let Alexander prattle on about their plans until the people listening excused themselves and left. If he felt comfortable enough, Thomas would cut Alexander off and take charge of the conversation.

It was not as effective as had Thomas and Alexander worked separately, and, being the president, Thomas should probably talk more often, but he did not want a repeat of the panic attack at the Jackson event. More than a few people were staring pointedly at their intertwined fingers, but nobody had dared to comment on it yet. Alexander masterfully changed the subject every time it looked like someone wanted to breach the topic, and the few people foolish enough to disregard this were deterred by Thomas' glare that challenged anyone to speak.

At one point, Alexander pulled him aside, dismissing the delegate from Louisiana with a few firm words. He waited until they were in relative privacy before whispering, “Hey, asshole, are you doing okay?”

Thomas' grip on Alexander's hand tightened. “Yeah. Thanks,” he murmured. Alexander's corresponding smile made something in Thomas' stomach flutter. He promptly squashed whatever that pesky feeling was.

“That's weird,” Alexander frowned, studying him. “Do you need to take a break? It must be getting stressful if you've started complimenting _me_.”

Thomas rolled his eyes in exasperation. “For once in your life, can you just accept a compliment without being a jerk about it?”

“I don't know what kind of a world you live in, but in this one, you don't insult the person you're trying to compliment,” Alexander retorted, but without any real heat behind his words.

Thomas caught Alexander's eyes. They truly were as chocolate brown as Angelica had once described, and as captivating. Alexander tilted his head as he stared into Thomas' eyes, looking as if he was analyzing a particularly complex puzzle.

A cough sounded from behind Alexander's shoulder. “Am I interrupting something?” Lafayette inquired tactfully. He was dressed in a dark-blue tuxedo and a matching bowtie, a drink in his hand as he surveyed the two men. Alexander noted that Lafayette's outfit really brought out his eyes this time.

Alexander gave the Frenchman a radiant smile. “No, you could never interrupt,” he said cheerfully. Thomas begged to differ. Despite the fact that Lafayette had become one of Thomas' close friends over the past few months, he wished for the Marquis to be anywhere but here right now.

Lafayette's eyes danced between the two of them mirthfully. “I am interrupting something,” he stated, then smirked. “I've been wondering: are you dating?”

Alexander snorted scornfully. Thomas tried not to take it as an insult, and failed. “Excuse me,” he said. “I think I see the Governor of Pennsylvania,” Thomas let go of Alexander's hand, immediately wishing that he had not.

Alexander frowned. “Are you sure you don't want me to go with you?” he asked with concern.

Thomas scoffed. “I'm hardly a child, Hamilton. I'll be fine,” the president then swirled dramatically and strode off into the crowd.

What was going on with him? Why was he behaving so oddly around Hamilton?

Lafayette and Alexander stared after the darker man. “What's his problem?” Alexander asked finally, turning to face Lafayette.

Lafayette sighed, his eyes still following Thomas through the crowd. “I was insensitive, I believe.”

Alexander snorted. “Well, Thomas takes offense at _everything_. Don't take it personally, Laf.”

“You never answered my question,” Lafayette remarked. “Let me rephrase it: do you want to date Thomas?”

Alexander stared at his friend in abject horror. “He—he's _Thomas Jefferson_!” he sputtered. Lafayette waited patiently for an answer, not saying anything. Finally, Alexander gave in. “Yeah, I suppose I do,” he threw up his hands in frustration. “I guess that I've seen something positive in him during those last months. But it doesn't matter,” he added, “because discounting the fact that Jefferson is painfully straight, there's no way he'd be interested in me.”

Lafayette hummed. “ _C'est drôle , Alex_. For such a confident guy, you are very self-deprecating, and very oblivious at that,” he remarked. “I think you might be surprised on both points.”

Alexander blinked. “Are you saying that—“

“That you really should help him out,” Lafayette cut him off. “He looks like he's going to be ripped apart by those vultures any second now,” he gestured towards where Thomas went.

Alexander whipped his head in the direction where his friend was pointing—and sure enough, Thomas was nervously looking around the room for an exit. His conversation partner was oblivious to the terror Thomas was feeling and continued to talk as if nothing was happening. “ _Merde_ ,” Alexander cursed. What the ever-loving fuck, Thomas.

Alexander quickly made his way to Thomas' side and linked his hands together. Thomas' eyes found his, and Alexander offered him a reassuring smile. He excused Thomas from the ignorant woman who immediately latched onto another unsuspecting victim to rant to, and all but dragged him out into the hallway and into an empty room.

Once finally in a quiet place, Alexander talked the other man into a state of calm. “Thank you,” Thomas muttered, not sounding grateful at all.

Alexander tilted his head backwards and fixed his eyes on the ceiling. “What were you even thinking, going off like that?” he asked quietly. “It was incredibly stupid of you. Actually, on second thoughts, I don't know why I expected you to act prudently.”

Thomas laughed emptily. “What kind of a president can't even talk to people without help? I'm not a president, Hamilton. I never should have been. You could be a better president than I am, and isn't that saying something?” he shook his head. “At leas you don't have trouble talking to people. God knows I—“

Alexander realized there was really only one way to get Thomas to stop talking. (Well, actually there were two, but the other one, to Alexander's knowledge, was still punishable by lifetime in jail at best.)

Later, when they were both slightly out of breath but much happier, Alexander leaned his forehead against Thomas'. “Maybe you shouldn't have been president, but guess what? You are all we've got right now. Deal with it. Besides, you're not alone in this.”

Thomas huffed. “Right, I have you,” he snarked, but his voice betrayed him.

Alexander said, “That you do,” then leaned in to kiss him again.

* * *

They eventually returned to the charity. A few people had noticed that they had left, but were under the impression that Alexander and Thomas had simply been arguing again—which, Alexander admitted, was close enough to the truth that he felt no need to dissuade them from the notion. Lafayette, the little shit, was grinning openly at them both as they approached. “I see you took my advice,” he said to Alexander, offering him a glass of champagne.

Alexander glared. “ _Va te faire enculer_ ,” he retorted, then muttered something under his breath in Spanish. Thomas didn't understand what he had said, but he doubted it was complimentary.

Lafayette simply laughed. “ _Je t'aime aussi, petit lion_."

* * *

“You're going to do _what_?”

Alexander heaved a sigh. “As I have previously stated, I am going to run for president. Please do not make me repeat myself again,” he replied long-sufferingly.

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Even discounting the fact that you are not responsible enough to care for a pet, let alone an entire country,” he began, “it may have escaped your mind that you are also not an natural-born citizen, and, therefore, ineligible for the presidency.”

Alexander stomped his foot impatiently. “In case you haven't noticed, we don't exactly have any suitable candidates. All who could have opposed this are dead, thanks to Al-Sakar,” they both paused for a second to remember the people they had lost that day, “and I have heard you complain about social events requiring your presence more times than I can remember. We both know you are not going to be running for this office.”

Thomas rolled his eyes but moved on. Clearly, this was a battle he had no chance of winning. “Have you chosen your running mate yet?” he ignored the pang of jealousy which accompanied the thought of anyone but him as Alexander's partner. “You'll be far more likely to not only win but actually be able to change the Constitution to permit an immigrant president if you have a Republican as your vice president—or someone who holds a lot of sway over Republican voters.”

Alexander smiled sheepishly. “Actually, I have been thinking about that, I have come to the same conclusion,” he began slowly, “I realize that my only realistic chance of success is to run alongside someone from the opposing party. Unfortunately, most of the Republicans that I trusted, not that there were many to begin with, are no longer available. That is why I would like to ask you: will you be my running mate?” he finished awkwardly.

Alexander was looking up at Thomas with hope in his big brown eyes, but Thomas could also tell that he was steeling himself for his proposal to be firmly shut down. It broke Thomas' heart.

Before Thomas had a chance to respond, Alexander continued: “ _Je veux dire que nous avons travaillé bien ensemble pour les deux dernières années, et je ne vois pas pourquoi cela doit changer_ ,” he rushed to elaborate, subconsciously switching to his native tongue as he was wont to do when nervous. “I have come to realize that I value your opinions and—“

“ _Attends, Alexander, et donnes moi une chance de dire quelque chose,_ ” Thomas cut in, once again thankful that he was fluent in French. He took a deep breath and let it out to calm himself before speaking. “I would be honoured to be your vice president,” he took a step towards Alexander and placed a hand on the shorter man's shoulder. “Besides, it would be one hell of a precedent to set,” he smirked at the thought. “Two black presidents, followed by an immigrant. Lee would be rolling in his grave,” he said, and though the reminder of the explosion resulted in a pang in his chest, it no longer left him feeling as though he was drowning in all the emotions he couldn't even begin to parse. Thomas considered it progress.

By the end of Thomas' reply, Alexander looked to be so giddy with relief that Thomas was surprised that he didn't start bouncing up and down. Instead, Alexander grabbed the hand on his shoulder and squeezed it gratefully. “Thank you, President Jefferson,” he said quietly.

“Likewise, President Hamilton.”

“ _Pas encore_ ,” Alexander reminded the Virginian.

Thomas smiled. “You will be. I will make sure of that.”

Alexander returned the smile, then turned on his heel precipitously. “Actually, I should start on that speech I need give to the Congress if I hope to change the natural-born-citizen clause,” he went on as he all but dragged Thomas over to the desk, plopped down in his chair, and powered up his laptop. He finally let go of Thomas' hand, though with great reluctance. Thomas hovered over Alexander's shoulder as he opened up an empty word document and stared expectantly at Thomas.

Thomas tilted his head. “Do you have any idea on how to approach this?” he questioned.

Alexander grinned. “I was actually thinking of going at it from the 'The Constitution has protected us for two hundred years, but it may be time to change it' angle,” he said and waited as Thomas thought it through, then nodded his approval.

“That might work, although you don't want to sound too condescending…”

By the time Peggy stopped by Hamilton's office in search of the President, Alexander and Thomas had moved over to the couch, having placed the laptop on the coffee table. Thomas was all but draped over Alexander as the latter was frantically typing his thoughts onto the document, sometimes interrupting or correcting the other man. They made an odd picture, but Peggy found that she didn't care. If anybody deserved happiness after all they have been though, it was those two.

* * *

“I knew that you'd succeed.”

“Yeah, keep preaching, you prick.”

“Look who's talking. If anything, you're the asshat.”

“That's _President_ Asshat to you.”

“I'm starting to regret my endorsement. Is it too late to withdraw?”

“I don't know, Mr Vice President, is it?”

“You are enjoying this, aren't you?”

“Every second of it.”

**Author's Note:**

> So that's that. Hamilton kind of forced his candidacy tbh.
> 
> Half of the quotes were unintended. It's just that I literally think in Hamilton quotes these days.
> 
> Also, historically, Hamilton had violet-blue eyes, not brown ones.
> 
> **.**
> 
> French isn't my native language, so feel free to correct me.


End file.
